


Remembrance

by nightcourthighlordrhysand



Series: Feysand [2]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-31 02:42:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10890003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcourthighlordrhysand/pseuds/nightcourthighlordrhysand
Summary: Even years of immortal life can't dull some things





	Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago and posted it on tumblr, but I'm trying to put everything on here too! Currently accepting prompts on there (same URL!)

Rhysand had been with the Illyrians when the message came. She's been out on her own before, called on to act as judge and ruler over disputes between her people. And her time in Prythian had ensured she was aware and familiar with death. Violent and gruesome.  
  
But today, the skirmish was over before she'd even heard about it. The messenger arrived with hopeful brown eyes, begging for someone to put a stop to the bloodshed; bloodshed that ended before he'd even spoken.  
  
That was something she'd been forced to get used to. How quickly death comes when immortal beings use their powers. Fearsome claws, swords, and blows with fists can bring death, but often the victims life bleeds slowly from their eyes, a last huff of breath escapes their lips before the light goes out and the shell is left behind, spirit escaping to wherever the dead go. Hopefully somewhere with less bloodshed and pain.  
  
Sometimes, she forgets. Velaris is like a utopia of sorts. There are little arguments to be settled over unpaid bar tabs or typical neighborly disagreements. But this little piece of Prythian carved out from the mountains, filled with glittering streets and an artists love for beauty is a gift from the Cauldron, a piece of luck that she'd never understand.  
  
And perhaps that idyllic life was why the massacre in the western lands had Bren such a shock. It was fairly small scale compared to what it could have been or what had been in the past when Prythian faced full-scale war. Certainly smaller and more insignificant than that. But Feyre had never been able to accept the idea of any life being insignificant. Not since Under the Mountain. Not since she'd felt that warm blood trickle over her clenched fists and known the flick of her weak, human wrists had cut the lifeline of two nameless fae.  
  
But today had been a wake up call from her cozy post war existence. One she hadn't wanted and one that had jolted her mind back to that day. When she'd had to make a choice for the greater good. One she'd feared left irreparable tears in her soul.  
  
Sudden movement jerked her from her catatonic state, a dark form lingering on the threshold. Her mate.  
  
His piercing violet gaze took in her frozen form, no press against her mind necessary as he simply examined her from head to toe. Fighting leathers unsullied, golden brown in a mess of a plait, flyaways breaking free of the knot. Without a word he closes the distance between them in three strides, kneeling before her, broad, strong hands coming to cup her cheeks, roughened palms brushing her smooth skin. He studies her for a moment, eyes darting around her face, searching for some unknown injury until she blinks slowly, hands coming to grip his own and tugging them into her lap as she offers a watery smile.  
  
He doesn't press her for details. They'll talk about it surely. And Cassian had been there too, which meant the general had likely already briefed him at least minimally. But he lets his lips ghost across her forehead, down to her temple, the corner of her mouth, her jawline. His fingers slip up her shoulders and toward the top button of her leathers, the line of brushed brass closures that bisects her middle from shoulder to hip, and slides the first from its hold.  
  
Feyre's only movement is to let out a shuddering breath, fighting to keep the tears from slipping down her face, tears that are borne of equal parts mourning and frustration.  She's broken from her thoughts at the press of Rhysand's warm, familiar lips to her collarbone, exposed coyly by the loosening of the stays on her top. It's not intended to be sensual or an initiation. It's meant to do exactly what it does, the warmth, the reminder of affection and life, it sends a bolt down her body, reminding her that beauty and goodness still exist. Will always exist. Wordless comfort thrums down their invisible bond as he loosens more buttons, tender brushes of fingers and lips following in his wake until he slips the jacket from her shoulders, a plain white shirt, nervous sweat long since dried, the only garment covering her torso.  
  
Shifting backwards, he works with considerably more speed at unlacing and removing her dark boots. Placing twin kisses to the insides of her knees, simultaneously innocent and loving.  
  
As heat seeps back into her chilled toes, Feyre slides her fingers into his dark locks, tilting his head up from her waist, and offers a small smile. One that is certainly not full powered but at least more truthful than previously.  He rises to his knees, feet extended behind as she pulls him closer, his arms threading around her waist. Rhysand presses a chaste kiss to her breastbone and pulls away, eyes darting around her face, taking in her tired eyes and pallid complexion. Fingers slip beneath her undershirt and stroke at the bare skin above her dark pants, “Do you want to talk about it darling?”

Tears well in her eyes but don’t escape down her cheeks. Her mouth drops open as if to speak, but no sound emerges. Instead, he feels a tug from her end of the bond, wordlessly inviting him to see for himself what had happened, to understand and feel what she had felt. Before she relives and he experiences for the first time, Rhysand tugs his own boots off and tosses them blindly toward their shared wardrobe, loosening the top buttons of his tunic. 

When he turns back, Feyre has moved toward the head of the bed, now down to just her underthings and hair cascading down her back in a shimmery waterfall. She pats the bed next to her, an invitation he accepts quickly, sliding into his place, mirroring her position, their noses just brushing at the place their pillows meet, hands clasped gently between them.

He sees her memories in flashes as she shows them, the most recent past intercut with events that seem so long ago and yet the memories never seem to completely fade. Feyre practically trembles with the guilt that threatens to bubble up from the deep place she’d tucked it, worming its way between her ribs until it blooms across her skin, joints aching with the pain of her acts and omissions, the death and destruction she shoulders as her responsibility, despite his best arguments to the contrary.

Pushing himself back, out of her mind, more to save her from reliving than to protect himself, Rhysand gathers her close, pressing firm kisses across her exposed skin, willing her to feel the forgiveness and redemption she has more than earned, what she deserves. Feyre lets out a shuddering breath and works the remaining buttons on his dark tunic undone, slipping it from her shoulders as she tugs him over her, cradling him between her thighs. 

Rhysand lets his wings unfurl as darkness ekes out of his very being, his essence bringing calm around them in a soothing whirlwind, blinking stars dotting across the deep nothingness. Her fingers once again entwine themselves among his dark waves as she brings their faces level. He feels that thread of guilt, still lingering, holding on with a malice he’d never experienced, even in the earliest days of their bargain, when she’d declared her distaste for the bond. 

A flash through his mind, a vision, not of the future, but of the past, as he watches blood spill over her hands, watches through her eyes, each battle and choice she knows brought death. Logic tells them both it was all in an effort to prevent _more_ death and loss, but the remembrance of lifeless eyes and souls drifting away from the earth still crackle through their bones.

Wordlessly, he lifts her chin, locking her gaze with his as he reaches down blindly, bringing one of her slim hands into his broad one. Slowly, gently, but not without heat, he presses blistering kisses to the pad of each finger, to the palm of her hand, right between the lines of heart and life, repeating the same ritual with the other.

A single tear leaks down her cheek as she drags him closer with both hands, lips meshing with his with desperation he fights to slow. Feyre slides her hands down the planes of his back, touch whispering against his wings as he mouths his way across her cheek, lingering at her graceful ear, and descending the column of her neck as she breathes out his name on a sigh.

After that, things progress slowly, in a gentle rhythm, clothes slipped from bodies, hands grasping, breathless supplication as they ascend and fall together. They lay together in the rumpled sheets and blankets, his wings once again curled around them as Feyre tucks her head into the crook of his neck, exhales floating across his skin as their heartbeats slow, falling into sync with each other as breaths even and both drift to sleep, the steady midnight of Rhysand’s creation unfurling to mix with the starlit night.  



End file.
